Page 87 of One Last Thing
In the safety of Room Seventeen, I stumble towards the bathroom, searching for the migraine painkillers in my washbag, taking some and then collapsing on the bed, curling up as small as possible to try to fall asleep.
29
MEGAN
After showering and drying my hair, I knock on Mum’s door with this pitiful idea that it might be fun to do our make-up together. She doesn’t answer and I’m suddenly glad she doesn’t, scurrying back to my room questioning why I’m acting as though I’m a character in a Disney channel movie who is freakishly smiley and wants to do cutesy things like share a mirror with her mum. It’s embarrassing.
Reminding myself that I’m a grown-up person with a respectable job and the ability to do eyeliner without assistance, I put on a podcast and start doing my make-up on my own. My mind drifts to Nico lifting me up after the boat race and I get a thrill. ‘What the hell,’ I whisper out loud to no one, picking up my phone and changing the podcast to a Spotify playlist made by some lovely soul out there titled, ‘Girls Getting Ready Hype Up Ultimate Pop Playlist’. It hits the spot.
By the time I’ve relived some university dance floor memories, I’m ready to put on my dress. It’s such a striking gown, I didn’t want to go too heavy on the make-up, so I’ve gone for a more natural, sun-kissed look, as Charlotte Tilbury calls it, with drop earrings and my hair in the best loose up-do I could manage, which is actually quite good.
I can hear the music downstairs. The ball began half an hour ago, but Mum must be thinking the same as me: better to arrive late to an event like this. I want things to be in fullswing when I go down so I’m not standing there in the ballroom, feeling awkward and out of place. Best to slip into the crowd once things are getting going.
Gazing at the gown on its hanger, I decide that no matter how tonight plays out, I am lucky to have a night in this dress. It strikes me that everyone deserves the chance to feel like that at least once, to wear something that makes them feel elevated to something more than they ever thought they could be. I felt that way about my wedding dress when I chose it. It’s still at the store I bought it from, altered too much to my specifications to return it and get a refund. I told them I’d pick it up, but I haven’t. It’s a beautiful dress and I’m sure I can sell it to someone who deserves that feeling, too. But this ball dress is even better somehow. It makes me feel powerful. The ivory wedding gown came with a story already meticulously planned out, but this one doesn’t. In this dress, anything can happen.
Stepping into it, I reach round to try to do up the delicate zipper, but admit defeat after several attempts. Clasping the front of the dress to my chest, I unlock my side of the adjoining door to our rooms and knock. There’s no answer, so I try again, louder this time.
I finally hear her side unlock and she opens the door, blurry-eyed, still in the clothes she was wearing earlier.
‘Mum! Have you beenasleep?’
‘I . . . yes, what time is it?’ She looks me up and down in a panic. ‘Is it over? Did I miss the ball?’
‘No, Cinderella, you’re fine, it just started,’ I say, stepping into her room. ‘It’s so dark in here. Are you okay?’
‘Yes, fine,’ she assures me, turning on the light. ‘I forgot to set an alarm. Oh, Megan.’ She places a hand on her heart, smiling dopily at me. ‘Stunning. Just stunning.’
‘It’s the dress,’ I say, blushing and swishing the skirt. ‘Could you do the zip?’
‘I’d be honoured,’ she whispers.
‘Thanks.’ I say, laughing at her overemotional reaction. It’s nice, though, I like it.
Turning around, I wait for her to sort it out for me, feeling the waistband tighten as the bodice fastens in place. She steps back so I can turn to face her again, her eyes filling with tears as she looks me up and down. She nods, not saying a word.
‘How quick are you at getting ready?’ I ask, putting my hands on my hips.
‘As quick as I need to be,’ she answers. ‘Don’t worry about me, darling, you go down and I’ll join you in a bit. No one will notice my entrance anyway.’
‘That’s not true,’ I say, irritated by the comment.
‘Oh, it’s how it is at my age,’ she says with a dismissive wave of her hand, wandering over to the bathroom. ‘It stings at first, but you learn to accept that you no longer turn heads.’
‘Mum, have you met you? You’ll always turn heads.’
I say it as a light-hearted comment, almost a joke, but I don’t consider its weight until Mum stops in the doorway of her bathroom and looks at me over her shoulder with such surprise and gratitude in her smile that I regret not putting it more eloquently.
This reminds me of the time my parents had a dinner party and I overheard one of the guests describe my mum as ‘traffic-stopping gorgeous’, and from that moment onwards I had a desire for someone to one day describe me like that, a desire I would grow to resent as I got older. I should want people to describe me as so many other things, I knew that,and it annoyed me that the phrase stuck in my head as an aspiration.
I think Mum will always have a natural urge to want to be the prettiest in the room. It’s hard to become ignored when you’ve been so adored before. It’s like with her books – I wonder if she’d have preferred to have less success when she was younger so she didn’t feel so lacking when she didn’t continue in that success now.
Anyway, I’m glad I said what I said. I think it meant something to her.
‘I’ll see you downstairs, then,’ I say.
‘See you downstairs and, Megan, I want to hear every detail of Nico’s reaction of seeing you in that dress for the first time,’ she says, waggling her finger at me, ‘got it?’
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